In my own little world,
I can sit and just think,
without the chaos and noise
of my peers.
I can just feel the wind
on the tips of my ears,
I can just visualize
images in my head.
In my own little realm,
I can read to my pleasure,
without the lashing that
comes from my tormentors.
I can just read the text before me
in black and white,
but dream the same text
in vivid colors.
In my own little kingdom,
I can write down my feelings,
without the mockery
that resonates through the halls.
I can just set pen to paper,
letting the words take flight,
my pencil magically forming
a tale reflecting my misery.
In my own little corner,
I can lay and just dream,
without the immaturity
of my so-called friends.
I can lie there,
looking up at the sky,
my thoughts taking flight
on the free wings of birds.
In my own little world.